


Hold Me Up

by Suchthingbutnever



Series: Ziam fuckathon [4]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Closet Sex, M/M, PWP, Pining, Porn, Slash, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wall Sex, up against a wall, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suchthingbutnever/pseuds/Suchthingbutnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn isn't at all pining and desperate for Liam. Except he is, but in a manly, dignified way. Until they have their broomcloset encounter, that is. (Ziam, Slash, shameless PWP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> This was yet again a response to a 1dkinkmeme ask, which read: "just look at the way liam’s hand almost completely wraps around zayn’s thigh unf. can I just have a fic where liam fucks zayn standing up or against a wall or something like that, while he holds him up.
> 
> i’d love it if there was dirty talk too! thank you in advance if anyone fills this!" 
> 
> So I filled away.

They’ve been staring at each other like there was no tomorrow. 

Zayn tried his best to not look desperate and kept his eyes down in case they got that puppy-dog look Niall often claimed he had when he wanted something. He wanted Liam. 

And that was an understatement. 

There were often these crazed moments when Zayn would sit up in bed, rub the sleep from his eyes and be absolute certain that this was the moment to tell the world about the sexual tension and the stolen looks, the way he would close his eyes and imagine that awful song he was doing backing vocals on was something entirely different, and that Liam had touched the back of his hand the other day. 

Then there were milliseconds that stretched on for an eternity, with Zayn buried under several coats of grit and ice. Liam would be on the phone, smiling at something, smiling with crinkled eyes and warmth around the corner of his mouth, Shakespeare would’ve wanted to do sonnets on the curve of those lips. Zayn would be struck and unmoving, wondering whether his mental capability had just shrunk or expanded infinitely: he either wanted to just choke the girl on that line, a few continents away, or invent some sort of extremely sophisticated apparatus to poison her. 

It was rather pathetic, he realized. In some interview they told him he was considered the quiet, brooding one. He almost told them that he had an inner monster that was disfigured with various combinations of want, want, want. That and jealousy, dread, unnatural giddiness and a bittersweet churning that made him double over inwardly every few minutes. That monster would take out a machete and chop them up, if necessary. 

Instead, he just shrugged and nudged Harry to say something flirtatious and possibly headline-worthy.

But Liam, Liam just sat and gave Zayn a look that made him think of the best and worst of life, of this so-called career of his, of his sisters and his mum. And because he was never one to fight and withstand, he looked back. 

Niall placed a hand in the small of his back when the interviewer remembered to ask him a question about music and whether the next album was to be this or that, ladida.  
Zayn said: “It’s not like we really get to decide, honestly, we’re going to sing about girls and not having them, with a good swirl of techno and too much pop and auto-tuning. Something that sells. But that’s beside the point, because I want Liam to shove me against something flat and tell me that the world is irrelevant.” 

Except he didn’t.

He shrugged and talked about connecting to the fans and whatnot. He felt Liam’s gaze burning into his nape, and he could only resist ripping off his T-shirt so the rest could burn, too, by gritting his teeth and burying his hands under his thighs. 

Afterwards, Niall gave him a clap to the side of the head and told him he was knackered and probably needed a good bag of crisps, which he offered to fetch. Harry and Louis tagged along, cell phones glued to their hands, earphones tugged in, fingers dragging across touch screens. 

One part of Zayn realized that, similar to his wildest fantasies, they were now alone, disregarding most of the staff and Paul, and escape could be unrealistically quick. Liam would take his hand, eyes bright, and say: “Let’s get some privacy, yeah?”  
But the majority of Zayn’s other parts stayed where he was and tugged his hands into his pockets. Liam was on the phone, again, and that send a sharp tug through some of Zayn’s more tender areas in his chest. 

He nearly missed the buzzing of his own phone.

And couldn’t believe his eyes when Liam’s name popped up, a scrambled line of misspelled words asked him whether he wanted to get some fresh air.  
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Zayn screamed.  
No, he didn’t. He just shrugged and followed when Liam slipped through a door that led to whatever. 

They went down an empty corridor that could’ve been anywhere, really, and then Liam was waiting for him to catch up. Zayn felt like doing a few skipping steps and flying into those arms, like some fairy princess. Liam would carry him somewhere soft and warm and fuck him into oblivion. He was reliable like that. 

Instead, Zayn headed forward and kissed him straight on the lips.

First he felt like apologizing, but the fact that he couldn’t quite remove his lips from Liam’s was sort of hindering.  
Liam was taking it surprisingly well. Maybe the deep looks Zayn had flashed him on occasions when he felt like he was going to spill over had really translated. And Liam had touched him the other day. Lingering. 

When he finally removed his lips, he coughed up a: “I love you”, followed by a rambled: “That was cheesy, sorry. I just thought I might mention, it case you haven’t noticed. I think the kiss sort of demonstrated how desperate I am, haha, yeah. Desperate.”

Only he once again, really didn’t. 

Instead, he cast his eyes down and prayed that Niall would barge in on them and he’d have an excuse to go somewhere private and slice open his chest to check whether everything was still intact. 

Then Liam got a grip on his shoulder, a rather tight one, and for a second or so Zayn was overcome with the fear of being punched square in the jaw by the one guy he was willing to take it from. He never felt the smashing impact, though, because he was pushed into the next room available so quick he couldn’t have finished saying ‘One Direction’ or perhaps ‘I heart Liam’. 

Or his dick, as an alternative. 

That he felt at the back of his thigh, once they both successfully squeezed into the broom cupboard. Zayn stumbled over several cleaning agents and held on to the mop of a… mop. Liam was groaning, and it would’ve sounded funny if Zayn wasn’t too busy noticing the erection pressed against him and the hands circling his hip. 

“God you’re big.” 

That one he actually said out loud. And it wasn’t just the impulse of the moment, but a statement made according to various of his daydreams including a certain body part inside him in a shocking diversity of positions. Liam groaned again and the flipped him over and pressed them together, half of the mop sandwiched between them. 

Then everything moved really fast, regardless of how crowded the tiny space was, or how ridiculous it was to shag in a broom closet. 

Liam tugged open Zayn’s jeans and cursed when something ripped very slightly. It was an impressive demonstration of their ability in multi-tasking: Zayn had attached his mouth to the side of Liam’s neck and marveled at the salty tinge and musty aftershave, while his hands were opening any buttons that he could reach, even the ones on Liam’s shirt pocket. His hips were moving on an own accord, grinding rather vigorously – but he figured it was not the time to blush or feel embarrassment because of possible slut-like behavior on his side.

Then he was stepping out of his pants and underwear, leaving them on the ground next to a pile of janitorial supplies he wasn’t able to name, and gasped when he was hoisted up and pushed against the wooden wall. 

He had the vague notion that he was dreaming all of this up, until Liam’s hot breath hit the side of his neck and his ankles met while circling around a strong waist. He was almost glad, but also a tad wistful, that it was almost completely dark: he could neither see how Liam slicked up his fingers, nor how he worked them inside him. 

But damn right he could feel it. 

It had felt weird at first, when the idea of sleeping with a guy came up, he could only picture himself spreading his legs, even if the other way around it would’ve been way easier. He had watched videos and raped many long-ish objects of their original functions, touched himself and mewled like a kitten. Right now he was so overwhelmed that his mouth was hanging open and no sound came out. 

“Fuck” Liam breathed against his ear, one hand working his way in, the other one holding Zayn up with what seemed like very little effort.  
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” Zayn said, screamed, moaned. “Just put it in me.” Did he actually just say that out loud? 

Then he blacked out of the complete darkness surrounding him, because apparently Liam had heard him.

With the first few moves, things toppled over, broomsticks clattering to the ground, vacuum cleaners banging against supplies of electronic air-freshners. Zayn threw his head against the cupboard wall a few times, until he felt like he was stupid enough for the moment to stop the swelling in his chest. 

Liam snapped his hips up. (Clatter in the background)

And again. (Zayn moaned with his breath hitched)

Again. (Again)

He held on to Liam’s shoulders, the heat inside him exploding as he was stretched, the hard thickness filling him like… you wouldn’t believe. Zayn didn’t want to compare this moment. He wanted it all for himself, he wanted those frantic movement and the comfortable, familiar softness of Liam’s shirt hanging half open to have its own category in his brain. 

The friction almost killed him, but Liam was still holding him up, hands gripping to leave bruises, over which Zayn would drool and fuss tomorrow while in the shower, jacking off to thoughts of Liam’s dick rubbing against him. 

But right now he just stayed up against the cupboard wall and kept his legs locked behind Liam’s back, so their precarious balance wouldn’t be endangered, so he could focus on that lovely cock he was moving his hips to meet, the slapping, grinding sounds making a lewd symphony with the incoherent moaning he himself was doing. 

Maybe he should’ve recorded it, for private time. 

It wasn’t at all weird when suddenly Liam sagged to his knees and dragged Zayn down, so that they were on the ground, sharing what little space there was with the bottles of detergent. He was gliding so deep into Zayn that he almost screamed at the sensation, but he bit down on his lip and tried to keep it that way, deep, deep, deep.  
His legs were falling to the side out of fatigue, and to Zayn’s horror nudged open one squeaky old door of the broom closet. Daylight invaded their tiny enclosed room and the air went cold. 

Liam’s eyes had widened, but he didn’t stop for one second, moving, pulling out and shoving back inside. Zayn could suddenly see him, so very clearly. The way his cheeks were flushed with the effort of it all, the way his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. Or maybe how his hands seemed impossibly large and were forcing Zayn’s legs back, pushing up his T-shirt, exposing skin. 

Then Zayn took Liam’s face into both his hands, from that impossible position, and thought: “God we should do this somewhere more comfortable, you can bend me over, do anything you like, really. But I’d never, ever want to change the way this time went because you’re still deep inside me, factually and metaphorically.” 

What he said was: “Fuck, Liam.” 

But in a way that did all porn stars who ever lived justice. 

Then they both exploded and tumbled out of the cupboard, tangled and messed up. Liam pulled out and Zayn winced, not just at his soreness, but at the bright, unforgiving light. 

Magically, nobody appeared on this very corridor in this very moment. Zayn hurried to tug on his pants nonetheless, foregoing the underwear. Liam was fumbling with his buttons, his look practically screaming ‘cupboard sex’ at anyone who might see it. 

But then they both stopped short in their tracks, eyes meeting. Zayn felt his heartbeat increasing again – this infatuation really wasn’t easy on his blood pressure. Then he was suddenly seized again, the cupboard doors banging shut while Liam pushed open the next door. Flat surfaces, loads of flat surfaces. 

“Hell, no.” 

It was the staff’s kitchen.


End file.
